For the record, I have always hated the title of that Judy Blume novel. It makes me want to start glowing like Monica from Touched by an Angel, as though I suddenly appeared at the side of one of my addict friends, assuring him that if he stops making his newborn's bottles into bongs, he just might find the Gates of Heaven after all (or, at least find them long enough for his daughter to reach the legal age for child emancipation). Radar's skin's not quite yellow yet, but when he stopped by this morning, I wouldn't say his current color - cellophane - looked particularly healthy, either. I assumed that his liver must still be "somewhat" working, but his hands shook so badly, he could barely hold a cigarette. Which was why I was surprised he rang the doorbell, rather than knocking. I mean, I know firsthand that, as a man, pressing the doorbell requires a certain "aim," and having lived with this dude for almost seven years - and having spent those seven years splashing bleach around the toilet like an arsonist dousing gasoline - "good aim" is something he does not have on a regular basis.
"What's up?" I asked.
"You decorating for Christmas early this year, or what?" he asked.
"Not today," I told him, "but I had planned on it, yes."
"You havin' the Star Trek tree again?"
"Yes, of course. Just like every year."
"Cool."
Not the most festive Holiday interaction I'll admit, but the fact we had one at all was telltale. Radar, my roommate-in-exile, isn't crazy for his current living situation (not with me, but with his soul-crushing, squeeze-him-for-every-goddamn-dime-girlfriend), and he hasn't used my house as his primary residence for years. But he still gives me a rent check for a home-office (which I fully expect is for to keep his foot in the door here, for when things go south with the gold digger, which is fine; I think she's a c*nt). So, there's still a chance for a Merry Christmas after all, apparently. Or at least, a Mary one.
"What's up?" I asked.
"You decorating for Christmas early this year, or what?" he asked.
"Not today," I told him, "but I had planned on it, yes."
"You havin' the Star Trek tree again?"
"Yes, of course. Just like every year."
"Cool."
Not the most festive Holiday interaction I'll admit, but the fact we had one at all was telltale. Radar, my roommate-in-exile, isn't crazy for his current living situation (not with me, but with his soul-crushing, squeeze-him-for-every-goddamn-dime-girlfriend), and he hasn't used my house as his primary residence for years. But he still gives me a rent check for a home-office (which I fully expect is for to keep his foot in the door here, for when things go south with the gold digger, which is fine; I think she's a c*nt). So, there's still a chance for a Merry Christmas after all, apparently. Or at least, a Mary one.
Speaking of merry Christmases, I'm farming out one of my last few remaining sacred Holiday duties this year. I'm talking of course about putting UP the damn Christmas tree, and as I already keep it fully decorated and under a tarp in my basement, I'm that much closer to being an old man - like Grandpa from the Lost Boys. I've been collecting Hallmark Star Trek & Star Wars ornaments since they first came out in 1991 - "Shuttlecraft to Enterprise, shuttlecraft to Enterprise. Spock Here! Happy Holidays! Live long and prosper, you stupid human beings!" - and it's just so damn much easier keeping the full tree fully decorated, and under layers of Dexter-like plastic & duct tape. "Merry Fucking Christmas," with an emphasis on the "MMMMMMMMMPH," and if you look carefully under the basement spotlights, dried jizz twinkles just like Capote's "Christmas Tree snow."
I used to put up the Holy Grail of SyFy Holiday Trees: Big, all black (like space), white lights (like stars) and 30 years worth of Star Wars, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, X Files, and various remaining pieces from my Micronaut Collection. I have TONS of outer-space & celestial-themed Christmas ornaments, from globes that look like Earth, to little rockets, stars, little sparkly things, and various mathematical shapes that are placed to imply intelligent design. Of course, I also have the ultimate Intelligent Nativity Scene: A complete, 1975 Mega Star Trek Action Figure Bridge Playset. This thing is so fuckin' cool! (You can see photos of it under my "About Dave" tab on this site). It implies that William Shatner is the Baby Jesus - can you get any better than that? I mean, he already wears a diaper ...
I used to put up the Holy Grail of SyFy Holiday Trees: Big, all black (like space), white lights (like stars) and 30 years worth of Star Wars, Star Trek, Battlestar Galactica, X Files, and various remaining pieces from my Micronaut Collection. I have TONS of outer-space & celestial-themed Christmas ornaments, from globes that look like Earth, to little rockets, stars, little sparkly things, and various mathematical shapes that are placed to imply intelligent design. Of course, I also have the ultimate Intelligent Nativity Scene: A complete, 1975 Mega Star Trek Action Figure Bridge Playset. This thing is so fuckin' cool! (You can see photos of it under my "About Dave" tab on this site). It implies that William Shatner is the Baby Jesus - can you get any better than that? I mean, he already wears a diaper ...
I'm not sure what I'm going to do job-situation, right at the moment. The thought of just get-get-get-getta' job (my Mother's Siren Song), but I'm honestly not in the right mental frame of mind to do something as simple as run a register. (Like, I can imagine breaking into tears should I have to punch a timeclock after finishing When People Go Away.) I'm still processing the recent confirmation that yes, I do have eleven different personalities - and many of them are jaw-droppingly sad. Now that all my alters are aware of each other, my head is in a constant state of bickering. No, I don't hear actual "voices," but I am aware of the Chorus (that's what I call them) as they fight amongst each other - each trying to get my attention for their own individual reasons. Some have legitimate concerns (the ones worried about depression in particular), but most are just like insecure children - tugging at my sleeves, like a kid wanting a hug. I literally have years of missing time, and little by little, they're starting to come back. All I can say is that as I grow more aware of the STAGGERING damage caused by my untreated concussion & sexual abuse - when coupled with realizing how much wasted potential and multiple suicide attempts occurred in the process - I honestly have no idea how I am still alive today. My Guardian Angel deserves both a Red Lobster and an Amazon gift card.
The book is 100% and as polished as I can make it. Every day I mail it to a different Literary Agent in hopes of getting picked up, but anyone who's ever submitted a book, knows how difficult that process is. I like to use phrases like "soul crushing," "gut wrenching," and "mind-numbingly hopeless," with just the right hint of sadness, loneliness, and despair. But I usually keep quiet on those last parts. The genuine third rail of conversation is to tell someone that you're preparing to kill yourself. And if you really want to fuck with people, tell them the truth: I am going to kill myself, not I want to kill myself. Try watching then wrap their simple little heads around that, and then say something eloquent: Well, I think everyone has a bad day sometime. And I couldn't agree more. That's why I'm constantly saying the c-word under my breath. At least when I do finally get God's attention, he'll know it's me because I swear so often.
Yeah, just like Touche, we're gonna' totally change Heaven's dress code when I get there.
- Sir Dave
The book is 100% and as polished as I can make it. Every day I mail it to a different Literary Agent in hopes of getting picked up, but anyone who's ever submitted a book, knows how difficult that process is. I like to use phrases like "soul crushing," "gut wrenching," and "mind-numbingly hopeless," with just the right hint of sadness, loneliness, and despair. But I usually keep quiet on those last parts. The genuine third rail of conversation is to tell someone that you're preparing to kill yourself. And if you really want to fuck with people, tell them the truth: I am going to kill myself, not I want to kill myself. Try watching then wrap their simple little heads around that, and then say something eloquent: Well, I think everyone has a bad day sometime. And I couldn't agree more. That's why I'm constantly saying the c-word under my breath. At least when I do finally get God's attention, he'll know it's me because I swear so often.
Yeah, just like Touche, we're gonna' totally change Heaven's dress code when I get there.
- Sir Dave